The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “No-no-no,” Sophie shrieks and covers her ears to shield herself from the brutal impact of his words. “I’m not hearing this! I won’t! I can’t! Segi,” she pleads, before screwing up her face and making a mad dash inside.

  Masegi catches the screen door before it bangs shut and follows Sophie to the small single bathroom. He folds his arms in the doorway, waiting for the crushing pain he has caused to subside.

  Sophie’s stomach convulses repeatedly, pressuring her body to purge the illicit truth. She gags and coughs, staring at the outline of a white porcelain toilet, her salty tears dropping on bitter debris that floats freely in the bowl. She heaves until her will is no longer able to reject reality and the stinging flow of anguish against the dam of futility finally dries up. Taking a cool, wet cloth Masegi made for her, she blots her cheeks and forehead and presses the moisture to the back of her neck.

  The rustic habitat, far removed from civilization, is Masegi’s secret escape from a hectic lifestyle. Situated in the foothills of a distinct wilderness of open plains and ancient sandstone formations, the pristine territory is known as Bushmans Kloof. It is a carefully preserved animal sanctuary and hidden gem within South Africa’s western hemisphere, an exotic playground for those rare individuals who seek an immersive African experience. It is also a place Masegi has always come for restorative rest.

  Masegi watches and waits, struck by the change in her. He marvels at the speed of time. Sophie has grown to a woman seemingly overnight, and now she is with child. The lines on his face form tracks of concern and, with a thought, he slips away only to return with a bottle of water.

  Unscrewing the cap, “Here, rinse,” he coaxes softly.

  Swishing the sourness off her tongue and spitting into a basin with running water, Sophie groans, “I think I need to lie down.”

  The wincing pain of an approaching migraine has overpowered her mental misery, shooting needles at the back of her eyes. Sophie grips the wet cloth in her fist and covers her mouth as another spasm of nausea threatens.

  “Segi, I,” Sophie stalls. Suddenly clammy, she blinks away tiny black specks in her vision and can feel the blood rushing from her head. She spies her paper-white complexion in the small mirror over the sink. Her mind drifts lightly to her baby. Ben’s baby. Deep exhaustion rolls over her like a bruising tidal wave causing her knees to buckle.

  Masegi lunges to save Sophie from hitting the straw mat that covers a hardwood floor whose planks were cut from the native mukwa tree. Limp like the beaded doll his baby sister played with as a child, he carries her to the single bedroom in the small dwelling and gently lays her on the bed.

  Sophie’s eyelids flutter briefly, “My flats. Oh, my head,” she whimpers.

  “Shhh, try to rest.” Masegi tenderly unhooks the slender straps and pulls off Sophie’s shoes. The posh Italian brand, Bottega Veneta, is not missed. He stands motionless by the side of the bed, watching her chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. It pains him to be the bearer of tragic news and see his Blommie Kabouter hurt so badly. He does not try to dispel her grief or cage her reaction.

  Sophie’s husband is dead. Everything changed for her in an instant.

  “Killed in an unfortunate incident at Christiaan Barnard Memorial,” Masegi explained. He had to say it twice before the searing effects finally sank in.

  When the light in Sophie’s eyes extinguished, he could not bring himself to tell her the whole truth. Benjamin Downing had murdered two Salva employees in cold blood and injured a hospital security guard before turning the gun on himself. The media describe a suicide attack, suggesting the event is a potential act of terrorism. Authorities are adamant they can neither confirm nor deny the claims, but he is sure the nasty mess will be cleaned up in record time, Salva-style.

  His department has been warned to stay out of it. Sophie is not mentioned in the intelligence briefing he received from the embassy, but he knows better. They are both in grave danger and must move on as quickly as possible. He has a plan and because of his years of service plenty of connections.

  They must leave before the crack of dawn. His camp haven would be an effective balm to heal a broken heart. Sadly, this cannot be. Masegi will need to tell Sophie the entire story one day, when she is ready to hear it, but not now. Instead, he helps make her comfortable.

  When she stirs, he places his large hand on her shoulder, “Just be, little one. The shock will pass soon enough.”

  Sophie succumbs to pain that feels like her skull is inside a massive bell being struck with a sledgehammer. She curls her arms up to her chest and drops her chin down to her clasped hands. Closing her eyes, she blocks out the physical world. Time passes in troubled dreams she won’t recall.

  A sudden noise from another room jolts Sophie to wakefulness. Her eyes snap open to a dark place and search for a point of focus. A square of moonlight through an open window falls across the foot of her small bed. The foreign, emotive calls and chirps of teaming nocturnal life remind her where she is. The mosquito netting has formed a cocoon around her bed and a blanket has been added to ward off the chill of an African night.

  Ben, Sophie’s mind cries out.

  “Ben,” she whispers, the ready tears run to her temples and back into her hair. Sophie slowly turns her head, testing. This time her throb of a migraine has mercifully subsided. The shock of losing her husband leaves her with the isolating numbness of disbelief.

  Careful not to jerk her head, Sophie slowly rolls to her side and pushes up to a sitting position. A tense male voice and accent much like Segi’s invades their peace.

  “You won’t wait, bru? Not even until first light?”

  “It will be light by the time we get there. The sooner we leave, the better. With your help, of course.”

  “You can have the Piper, anytime, you know that.”

  “Good then. It is settled.”

  “I hope you know what you are doing, Masegi-bru.” A heavy sigh conveys frustration.

  “What?” Sophie’s vision is still blurred, but her mind is alert. She warily scoots to the edge of the mattress, trying hard not to rouse her dragon of a headache. Padding barefooted to the door, she opens a small crack. When both men turn to her presence, she steps out to make herself known.

  “What’s going on?” Sophie’s sore eyes flutter to adjust to the light.

  “This is Berko. My bru,” Masegi says.

  Sophie returns Berko’s nod and self-consciously tugs on her crumpled blouse to straighten it. “Your brother. I can see the family resemblance.” There is an uneven pause as the two brothers dart looks at one another.

  “What are you two scheming?” Sophie frowns. She hopes her curious tone covers a chord of uneasiness.

  Berko, younger than Segi by a good ten years, does not return Sophie’s smile. His attention transfers again to his brother. The outline of his face is an invincible shield concealing his thoughts.

  “My brother is a guide,” Masegi continues reasonably. “There is an exclusive retreat a few miles to the southwest of here he helps oversee. That is one of his company jeeps.”

  Masegi juts his chin to the place where a beefed-up, all-terrain white Wrangler is parked on a packed dirt and gravel surface outside. Masegi and Sophie made a pit stop near Clanwilliam, a small town on the fringe of the narrow Olifants River Valley, and traded Masegi’s sports car for more practical transportation. He adds, “Berko has a number of jeeps he uses for safaris and excursions that cross the Cederberg Mountains.”

  “Wow, that’s super. But seriously, what’s up?” Sophie asks, noticing Berko’s critical glare.

  “We have to leave Africa.”

  “Piper! Bloody hell, piper as in Piper airplane?” The word Sophie overheard abruptly registers. “You can fly a plane?” she croaks in mounting uncertainty.

  Masegi laughs at this, “Yes. No worries.”

  “I will put your things in the jeep,” Berko moves decisively, lifting a large black duffel bag. Without a second glance, he s
hoots out the front. The screen door springs shut on its hinges with a bang.

  “We are going to fla-fly out of here? Are you serious?” No way is she going to climb into a cockpit with this guy or anyone else for that matter. Small planes give her the willies and bring on claustrophobia, one of a range of symptoms developed from her fear of heights. Why, she can’t even lean over a rail, much less soar up to the clouds in a propelled missile with rigid wings. It is funny how the difference in size affects her. She has much less trouble with the many flights she has taken on passenger jet airliners. It is like comparing an experience on a fishing boat to a cruise ship.

  “I don’t see why we can’t just drive. Nobody knows—”

  “No,” Masegi neatly cuts off Sophie’s qualms. “Salva will not rest until they find you. You of all people should know the seriousness of your situation. Your life is in danger.”

  “Really, do ya think?” Sophie’s eyes narrow, wondering just how much Segi knows. She fetches her flats that are badly scuffed from her getaway. Balancing on the arm of a chair, she slips them on and fastens the ankle straps.

  “Salva has been on our radar for years,” Masegi says, glad to see Sophie is better. “We suspect they are a front for something else, something bigger and more sinister. You were held against your will, no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you are the first to have escaped.” He would like to add, and lived to tell about it, but corrects, “That we know of.”

  “Now you are really scaring me,” Sophie’s fear comes to the forefront at paralyzing speed and all other emotions recede. The hairs on her arms ripple in an adrenaline response and her eyes well in sharp contrast.

  “This is not a time for weakness,” Masegi snaps, his dark brows furrow as he searches her face.

  “Weak? Me?” Sophie bristles at the insinuation, the color rising up her neck. She rubs at a tear that managed to break free and meets Segi’s stare with a fierce look of her own, sparked by anger. He has no idea what she has been through!

  “Good,” Masegi grins hugely with satisfaction, “Let’s go.” Throwing a lumpy backpack over one shoulder, he motions to the door.

  Sophie is fast on his heels, “Where are we going?” Her lame query repeats like a broken record.

  “An airfield not far from here.”

  Chapter 15

  MYSTIFYING GHOST LADY

  Matt stretches into a yawn wide enough to give Jane a clear picture of the tonsils at the back of his throat. He looks tired. It is no wonder with the little real-sleep he has gotten.

  “April 10th, 1862,” Jane says in a measured tone. She twists sideways, one long slender leg curled up under her.

  “Your birthday. Indeed, I do remember.” Matt’s tenor is edgy. He should finish dressing, but somehow Jane has him settled beside her on the bed.

  Jane smiles tolerantly, “But we are talking about something way more important here.”

  “Ahem!” Matt utters stiffly and quickly shifts his body. The sensation of Jane’s knee pressing boldly against his thigh drives him wild with desire.

  “Fort Pulaski. Of course,” his eyes turn away from his wife. “A horrific battle that rendered our mighty fortification obsolete in one fatal sweep. A raging siege and reduction that met a bad end.” There is an intense feeling he has been thoroughly strung along. Matt holds this accusation and his heated apprehension at bay.

  “Yes, April 10th, the day I arrived at Fort Pulaski. Your men called me the Mystifying Ghost Lady,” Jane says. “They thought I appeared from out of nowhere. Actually, that is not far from the truth.” She draws her lower lip between her teeth, anticipating some type of reaction. There is nothing but gritty silence.

  “Look at me,” she says brusquely, her composure coming undone.

  When his piercing stare shoots to her, she moves on, “There’s a reason I don’t talk about my past, Matt. It’s because I have traveled from another time. I come from one hundred fifty years in the future. The year and life I left behind was 2012.”

  The first time Jane told Matthew Hopkins her fantastic story he took it amazingly well. She recalls the night his actions saved her from Captain Tucker’s men. Matt said the soldiers were under orders to take her into custody for suspicion of conspiracy and treason.

  It was at that moment her fondness for this man began to stir. The awareness of her own fragility and Matt’s stable force became a shining beacon within her chaos. His need to claim her as his own differs from the cozy comfort she had with Bryce McKenzie. Jane’s attraction to Matt became more physical as time went on. It stretched throughout her body, making her light and less empty, as if a hole in her heart was being filled.

  “You are a time traveler,” Matt gives a strangled laugh. He wonders at the ease in which the peculiar description rolled off his tongue. A shadow of a memory tells him he has done this before. He feels like pounding his head to draw out the perverse secrets buried within. Instead, he grips the linens on their bed to steady himself.

  “Why, my wife, you have read too many dusty volumes in my father’s library. They have spawned a prodigious imagination,” he scoffs. Ingenious stories like A Christmas Carol and Rip Van Winkle pop into Matt’s mind.

  “You know better than that,” Jane scowls, determined to see this through. Droplets of moisture trickle down the side of her neck and she unfastens a few tiny pearl buttons on the tucked muslin front of her nightdress.

  “Geez, I’m burning up. That fireplace is simply stifling!” She pats her husband’s leg and gets up to crack the French doors that lead to a balcony. A rush of cooler air is sucked into the room.

  “So, you have traveled from another time,” Matt reconfirms. The thrill of a repeat performance ruffles his nerves and heightens his sensitivities. “I have heard these words before. In another place.” A flash of recollection and matching parts of a puzzle fall decisively into place. “Yes, at Mrs. Marshall’s Savannah estate that night. I remember,” Matt says in awe, when more pieces connect. “And again at Tohidu.”

  It occurs to him, “You know events. You know history and what will be.”

  Beams of first morning sunlight that stream into their room set the crown of Jane’s head on fire. She has the hair of a goddess. Her unruly red locks fall teasingly over one shoulder. The silhouette of her sensual figure under her loose-fitting gown bedazzles all reason.

  “Come here wife,” Matt almost growls.

  Jane responds to his command and revels in his bold, steady gaze as she makes her way in lazy fashion to stand before him. Matt tugs her down to sit on one knee. She locks her arms around his neck and leans back to study his handsome, almost boyish face.

  Gently tracing Matt’s jaw with her fingers and brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, Jane says softly, “Are you okay? What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”

  “I was on my way to General Lee with predictions of things to come. A leather-bound book with careful documentation.” The words pour freely from his mouth. “To save us in this dreadful war in spite of ourselves.”

  “Not just predictions, Matt. Things that will happen. That is, until recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There has been a slight change in events.” She tests his willingness to listen.

  “Go on.”

  “Remember when I told you Bryce McKenzie and I were old friends. There is a bit more to us than that. We share a common bond.”

  “What’s this?” Matt tosses Jane to one side as if she were a hot potato and clambers to his feet. His hand automatically goes where the grip of his saber normally rides by his side, but he is not fully outfitted.

  “Hey!” Jane protests, immediately sinking through the feather mattress and hitting the hard boards beneath with a thump.

  “Are you to make me jealous, then, on top of everything else?” Matt’s narrowed glare shoots daggers in Jane’s direction, “Where did that sly rogue, that deceitful vagabond get off to?” His dislike of
the man forms a knot in his stomach. He grabs the poker again to jab the embers.

  “Can you leave that damn fire alone for a minute?” Jane covers her mirth, drawing back to seriousness. “It’s not what you think, honey. Bryce is a time traveler too.”

  When her husband does nothing to ease the tension between them, “You remember the strange little box I had with the impossible lock. The one decorated with Celtic symbols and the uncanny mate to my Lover’s Eye painted on the lid. I eventually cracked the combination.”

  Jane slows and rubs at the stress in her shoulders. Her peripheral vision is attracted to a tiny glimmer from her pitcher and basin set. The sun has risen just enough to catch its gold trim. It is a wedding gift from the McIntosh family, hand-painted with her favorite green roses that grow on the plantation’s property. She thinks she should probably wash up and get dressed, an arduous and time-consuming task to say the least.

  “Do not stop now, madam,” Matt warns as he sets his tool aside and checks his hands for soot. “The box. What did you find inside?”

  Jane makes a small sound of distress. Keeping secrets from the one you love can only come to no good. “A key similar to the one that brought me here, only more powerful. How it could be at Sea Oaks blows my mind, but the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”

  “A time travel key,” Matt mutters, his heart beating hard in his chest.

  “Yes. Bryce used it to go home, back to the future. He was sick with malaria, Matt. A death sentence in this time. Fingers crossed, he has returned to 2013 and is getting the right drugs to treat it.” Bryce took a terrible chance in blindly trying the powers of the key, but what choice did he have?